


Bowmore 12

by HyfrydCymru (a_haunting_of_four)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:33:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27793120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_haunting_of_four/pseuds/HyfrydCymru
Summary: The heart hears what it wishes most dearly to hear and overheard conversations often lead to terrible misunderstandings.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia), England/Scotland (Hetalia)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9





	Bowmore 12

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story in 2014 and never cross-posted to AO3. The original version will still be up on ff.net but I'll edit these chapters as I go. 
> 
> If you've read this before, it's lovely to see you again after so long.

The promise of it was driving Alfred mad.

It started in March, with Arthur's hand resting on his lower back as he reached for a drink across the bar top- lingering for a moment too long to be anything short of deliberate. It had been late, and the pub crowded. Everyone had been keen for a drink after three long days of stale boardrooms and seemingly endless meetings. The bureaucratic tedium of it all. Alfred had needed to lean in to catch what Bella was trying to shout from two seats away.

Arthur's hand had been warm, even through his shirt. He had wondered, hazy from the beer on tap and shared laughter, if Arthur had chosen to lean on him knowing he would be sturdier than the hardened wood of the old pub. He hadn't heard what Arthur said, just registered the timber of his voice and the weight of him before he was gone again, leaving him to flounder in the middle of a conversation he was no longer paying any attention to.

He hadn't seen Arthur again that night.

Waiting outside by the curve he had told himself he was waiting for Bella to climb safely into a cab that would take her to the embassy. Then Lizbet. When it had been just him and Matthew he had finally admitted to himself that he might have been hoping to catch Arthur on his way out.

In the rush of the next few days he had almost convinced himself that he had forgotten. There was work, and tinkering with put-aside projects after that. It wasn't until one afternoon weeks later that he had caught himself wondering what it could have felt like to have that touch linger past fortuity and into familiarity.

He had taken that thought and tried to make it go away. Boxed, taped, and shoved it into the deepest corner of his mind. Dismissed it as best he could, but could not forget.

It crept up on him. Meetings came and went, and continued to stretch on, but little by little they became more bearable if Arthur was sitting beside him to make quips about the speaker. Sitting across from him, where Alfred could catch him rolling his eyes at every outrageous suggestion- so Alfred would make another one and hope to catch him trying not to smile. And Alfred would have because, because another month in and he found that he had a hard time looking away. Worst of all, he had begun to stare and wonder at how he could have missed the handsome cut of Arthur’s jaw.

By September, Alfred was catching the wayward glances and subtle smiles of a man who thought himself unwatched, and it began to dawn on him that a once errant thought was beginning to condense into moments. Knees brushing under the table, hands grazing as they walked closely together down a hallway. He had finally built up the courage to sling an arm around Arthur’s shoulders one evening, and proud England had made no move to shrug him off. It was the closest they had been since the war, and Alfred had never been known for his caution. When his heart began racing, he let it soar.

When Arthur walked in on the first day of the Summit with a storm in his eyes and scowling like someone had pissed in his tea and made him drink it, Alfred noticed and patently so did everyone else. The growing excitement he had felt at seeing him again had quickly turned to bewilderment when Arthur walked past him with a terse nod instead the familiarity he had come to expect; and bewilderment to worry when he stepped out half way through the conference and came back smelling of Gauloises.

He was out smoking again when they adjourned for the day, backlit by the sun and with his overcoat draped over his back.

It made his shoulders look broader. Arthur had always had a way about him where even standing still he looked taller than he really was. Alfred was not sure he had ever seen him slouch, even at his worst. It made him want to pull down the collar of his coat and press a kiss to the nape of his neck.

He might, one day. Thinking about it put a smile on his face, and a bounce to his step as he half jogged down the stairs to join Arthur on the pavement.

Francis beat him to it.

A hundred years more and maybe then he’d wager a guess at what went on between those two. The way Francis’ hand slipped beneath Arthur’s coat made his jaw twitch.

Jealousy did not sit well on him, and he knew it. It settled like an ugly burn in his chest but he couldn’t help it. So when they took off together, he waited until they were just barely out of sight and went right after.

It was a strange thing, moving through the streets of another nation’s home. Like stepping into a house were all the windows had been left open. France had always felt like a soft breeze was blowing through the casement to him. England felt like mild rain.

He found Arthur sitting alone on the wrought iron seating outside an old alehouse Francis had dragged them all to once or twice over the years. Half-leaning on the wall to his left and pressing on his right temple with his eyes squeezed shut he looked on the verge of a migraine.

For a moment he considered walking up to join him, but uncertainty got the better of him and he hesitated for too long. Before he could make a real decision, Francis was already walking out, a beer in each hand. Alfred only barely managed to step out of view and slip in through a side door before he was spotted. There was a seat Francis had pointed out to Matthew before, and Matthew to him. A single wooden bench pressed to the front wall, by a large window paned with stained glass and an open iron grate. It allowed a clear view or the street, and left anyone sitting on the other side none the wiser. Perfect for an eavesdrop who did not know better than to pry.

Quietly, and hoping he would not be asked to leave, he took a seat.

Francis set a beer in front of Arthur with a cheerful flair.

“A pint for you.”

“Half pint.” Arthur grumbled, and straightened with a sigh.

“You’re welcome.” Francis riposted and sat down across from him. “Would you have preferred a pitcher? Or something stronger, if you’re going to be difficult this early in the day.”

“Piss off.”

Francis hummed noncommittally and gave it a moment.

“Whiskey, maybe?”

“Francis.” Arthur glared a warning, glass poised near his lips.

“Drink your pint, dear.” Francis’ smile was sharp enough to cut.

“Fuck off,” Arthur scoffed without much heat.

Arthur had left his carton of cigarettes by the edge of the table and was fidgeting with it again, absentmindedly pulling one out and tapping the tip out of habit. It was a familiar tic. Alfred had learnt to roll cigarettes by watching over Arthur’s shoulder.

He was digging around his pockets looking for his lighter, cigarette held lightly between his lips, when Francis reached across the table to snatch it out of his mouth, and casually dropped it into his beer. 

“It’s not the sixties, darling, don’t be crass.”

Arthur fished it out with a curse and left it to soak up the thin napkin under his glass.

“You’re a bastard,” he seethed. “That was my last one.”

“I noticed.” Francis wrinkled his nose and buried it into his glass. “Brought those this morning, did you?”

Arthur took a long sig of his drink in lieu of a response.

“Did it steep long enough?”

Arthur put down his glass hard enough that the table rattled.

“Are you trying to provoke me?”

“Of course.” Francis smiled in that odd way that only seemed suited for his face, half mocking and fully sincere. “Someone has to before your angst brews a storm over your dreary little town.”

Alfred was not used to seeing that particular eyeroll directed towards anyone else. It was a nice change of pace in a way. He felt the corners of his mouth twitch into a smile.

Francis tipped his glass to the side.

“How is your brother?”

“Which one?” Arthur arched an eyebrow.

“You do have so many,” came glibly. “Let’s start with Wales. Lovely Wales.”

“Of course. Wales.” Arthur deadpanned, unimpressed.

“Had a domestic?”

“Of a sort. Dai is touchy about his books and I may have borrowed one or two. Indefinitely. Some five, six decades ago?”

“Ah, so that’s what has you in a mood.” Between Francis and Arthur they somehow managed to raise sarcasm into an artform. Francis leaned forward to rest his forearms no the table’s edge. “Books.”

“See, that’s where you would be wrong. The books have Dai in a mood.” Arthur mirrored Francis. “If I’m in a mood it is because you don’t know how to leave things well enough alone.”

Francis was very clearly biding his time. Arthur raised his glass without breaking eye contact.

“You know, cher," he started innocently enough, "I couldn't help but notice. I could swear that the last time I smelled that horrendous cologne you are wearing underneath the pack of cigarettes you chainsmoked I had both my knees behind my ears.”

Arthur choked on his drink.

Francis laughter was at odds with everything else about him, braying and loud. And inescapably contagious. Even Arthur had a difficult time trying to hide the fact he was struggling to hold back a laugh between coughing and cursing mildly under his breath.

“Bollocks to that.” Arthur looks grudgingly impressed. And lighter, Alfred realises. Francis seems to have that effect on him when they are not at each other’s throats. “It’s not-”

"Isn't it? A shame."

"How would I even know?"

"I'm sure you'll figure it out. You could ask."

Arthur's mood seemed to dim again.

"Are we still talking about perfume?"

"I don't know, cher. Are we?"

Something passed between them in the silence that settled. 

“Such a burden, it seems.” Francis mused, non sequitur. “And yet here we are.”

“And yet here we are.” Arthur smiled crookedly. “Santè.”

“Slàinte mhath.” Francis’ smile was one of his best, wide and sincere as he raised his glass.

Arthur shook his head with a scoff.

They were quiet again for some time after that, apparently content to watch people walk past them down the narrow streets. Alfred had the distinct sense that he had missed half of the conversation despite having hear it all.

There was a shared history that stretched between them, older than Alfred knew he could understand. Always at odds, more often of late side by side, but always navigating a shared history.

“You know,” Francis leant back on his chair, “he was beside himself this morning. Pinning away like a puppy when you wouldn’t give him the time of day.”

The implication of his words caught Alfred short and he felt his cheeks heat. For a split second he was convinced that they had known had been there the entire time, or that he had done something to call attention to where he was seated. He held his breath and tried not to feel ridiculous for it.

Arthur did a very good impression of someone who couldn't hear what Francis said, and let his words grow stale for a long minute just like that.

“Is that so.” It did not sound like a question.

“Presumably.” Francis was suddenly very interested in his nails. 

Arthur uttered something under his breath. What Alfred caught of it didn’t sound like English.

He reached for his temple again and stopped short of rubbing his eyes the way he had been doing earlier.

“It really is none of your business.” Arthur’s voice was edging on something like genuinely irked.

Francis rolled his shoulders back like they were sore and seemed completely unaffected by Arthur’s glare.

“It is very much my business. And Arthur, shallowness does not suit you. If it is really so much of an imposition then dash his hopes. Break his heart, and yours. Pretend that you never noticed that he wears his heart on his sleeve and that if you have, it is unwelcome. You refuse to talk about it and treat it as a burden, then put him out of his misery before I have to spend another second watching him watching you every time you are in the same room together.”

Alfred felt his mouth go dry and his stomach clenched.

To his surprise Arthur laughed. Low and caught something between bitter and almost genuinely amused.

The silence that fell between them felt heavy with implications. Francis waited patiently under the guise of his flippancy while Arthur gathered his wits around him. 

“He is my brother.” Arthur said at length.

Francis looked away from Arthur and swivelled what was left of the beer like it was wine, slow and measured.

“Aren’t we all?”

His question hung in the air.

“You want him, and he wants you.” Francis outlined unabashed. “What care have you for anything else?”

"What care," Arthur echoed but his derision fell short. He chased a stray drop of condensation and dabbed it away with is thumb. “For how long, do you think?” he ventured, voice low and curious. 

“You? It would be hard to say, and harder to measure.” The glass in Francis’ hand glinted in the late afternoon sun. Alfred tried to focused on that so to keep his eyes away from the wistful expression on Arthur’s face. “Him? I’d say from the very beginning.”

“I have wronged him so many times. In so many ways.” It carried the weight of a painful truth.

“And he has you. In just as many.” Francis turned his attention back to Arthur and held his gaze. “Who raised who, who fought who, and who won in the end. It does not matter, It never has. Argue with me, if it makes it easier to argue against yourself. I don’t expect anything else but hear me, Arthur, when I say that you’ve stalled long enough and left to your own devices you would wait forever. Both of you. Wait a century more, and drive yourselves mad if you need to. But know this." Francis leant forward again. "We won’t belong to ourselves more in a hundred years than we do now.” He softened his voice. “Be selfish, Arthur. And take this.”

Alfred could not make out the expression on Arthur’s face.

“I love him, Francis.”

Alfred caught the edge of Francis smile as he looked away, out into the street again.

“And yet here you are.”

Larger groups had begun to file as the sun began to set, for dinner or drinks. Alfred knew he was running out of time to slip away unseen. The other two did not seem to be in a hurry. Their conversation resumed, like nothing had been said. Sports, politics, Alfred did not try to keep up, only barely registering that Arthur and Francis were still speaking as his mind raced through possibilities.

Be selfish, Francis had said.

In the end he did he not have to find a way to sneak away. Arthur and Francis left first, disappearing into a side street some ways down to the left, unaware that they had left behind a young man ready to leap with the joy of fledgling hope.


End file.
